


The Pilgrim

by Doleneth



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 19:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4112947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doleneth/pseuds/Doleneth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kyna's planet is under the yoke of the Molsh Empire. One day, a mysterious traveller arrives bringing stories about a fearsome warrior who might drive the invaders away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pilgrim

The man came from the west, the setting sun behind him.

Kyna saw him come. He was exactly as Lom had described. A little, wizened old man, leaning heavily on a gnarled walking stick. His dark clothes were unfit for the desert; the knapsack on his back didn’t seem to carry enough food for the road.

His arrival caused a small commotion in the sleepy town. Children ran around him; kriths around on all their four wings.

“It’s the pilgrim!”

“The pilgrim has come!”

The pilgrim sat at the shade of the fountain in the center of the square, fanning himself with his hat. A small crowd gathered around him.

“Let’s go.” Kyna fell Lom’s hand on her back, and they both adjusted their sunveils. It was getting late in the afternoon to wear them, but it wouldn’t do to be recognised by the Molsh.

“Tell a story, pilgrim!,” a child demanded.

“Yeah! Tell a story!”

The man accepted a bowl of water from a woman and drank profusely.

“Long and wide have I travelled,” he started with a booming voice that belied his fragile constitution, “and I have seen many places. I’ve seen a place where the light sings and the sand dances. Do you want to hear about it?”

“Tell a story about the warrior!”

Kyna was drawn to the old man’s face. His smile lines were those of someone who smiled a lot. And there was a sadness about his eyes; a deep, old sadness, older than the man seemed to be.

He wasn’t smiling now. He obviously didn’t want to talk about any warrior. But that was what his audience wanted, and he would deliver.

“I knew a warrior once,” he started. “A great warrior. His eyes were ablaze with the fire of untold burning worlds.”

“Talk about how he defeated the Daleks!”

“The Daleks were the warrior’s most fearsome enemy,” the man continued. “They hated him… And they feared him, too.”

“Were the Daleks as bad as the Molsh?”

Silence fell upon the crowd. Everyone looked around, Lom and Kyna included. You never knew when a Molsh patrol was nearby.

“The Daleks,” the old man said in a conspiratorial whisper, “were worse than anything you can imagine. They were hate. Pure, unveiled hate. Everything and everyone in the universe they hated… But only the warrior they feared.”

“Could the warrior defeat the Molsh?”

“Yes. Could he?”

Big bloated bags on top of absurdly thin legs; those were the Molsh. A group of them, dressed in silver and gold plate-armour, now made their way across the crowd, dragging their heavy boots along.

Anyone who knew anything about the Molsh knew that the purpose of their legs wasn’t to hold their bodies, but to tether them to the ground. The boots were ballast.

Kyna didn’t need to see the leading man’s warty face to know Captain Kurrup. The new commander of the local garrison liked to go out in patrols at weird hours, to show who was in charge.

“Tell us, old man. Could this warrior of yours meet the Molsh empire in battle _and defeat it_?

“Leave him alone!”

Lom had removed his sunveil and now stood between Kurrup and the storyteller.

“Leave him alone,” he repeated his plea. “He’s only a harmless old man. He comes to town once or twice every year and tells nonsense stories for board and lodging. There’s no harm in him, really.”

“Nonsense?,” Captain Kurrup belched. The Molsh organism needed to constantly vent the excess gas it produced. “It seems to me that subversive nonsense is still subversive.” His arms weren’t much thicker than his legs, and the fingers on his belt ended in bulging tips. He looked over where his shoulder would have been, if he had had any shoulders. “Sergeant! Put that man under arrest.”

“No.” Lom drew his sword from under his robes.

“Subversion!”, Captain Kurrup burped. It was the signal for the crowd to disband noisily.

A Molsh’s legs were his main vulnerability. The armour-plate skirts afforded them some protection, but not much. Anyway, all of them learned in military school to keep their legs separated at all times.

But the Molsh to first step forward was brash and reckless. Lom’s sword cut straight through his ankles. The shock of losing his feet was nothing next to the sheer horror of finding himself buoyed to the stratosphere.

But the other Molsh had plasma rifles, and didn’t hesitate to use them.

_Protect the old man_ , Kyna’s standing orders were. _Protect the pilgrim_. But then she saw Lom’s body lying on the ground, she saw the Molsh laughing slimely, and the world was covered in a red mist. She picked up the sword and charged.

She was fast, but not fast enough for Kurrup. He had a sword of his own and unsheathed it, raising to the challenge.

The duel lasted exactly one stroke. Shards of Kyna’s sword rained around her. Her brittle blade was no match for the Molsh superior metallurgy.

“Arrest this woman,” Kurrup barked gassily. “For subversion. And, er, disturbance of the peace.”

She looked around as bulge-tipped fingers closed around her.

The fountain was empty. There was no sign of the old man.

* * *

The dungeon was dark and stuffy; the moonlight that got in through the barred window was a palid yellow; the manacles were heavy on Kyna’s ankles.

There was nothing in the cell but a bowl of dirty water and some grimy blankets. Someone was sleeping under one of them. Kyna could hear his rhythmic breath sometimes. When she couldn’t, she wondered if he was dead already. She would be soon enough.

She wasn’t afraid of dying. She was, however, afraid of pain. Like all her companions, she had heard the stories. She knew what the Molsh used to do to the rebellious. The doubts gnawed at her belly. Would she be able to stand it? Would she betray the others for the promise of a swift, painless death?

_Mother Mbulla_ , she thought. _Ralle. Mort._ She prayed the gods to make her strong enough, or failing that, to make her weak enough to not last much.

A sound distracted her from her prayers. The sleeping man stirred and turned over.

“Two hundred!,” the old man said. “Plenty of time. Uh, hello. I seem to have fallen asleep while I waited.”

_That it is, then. All was in vain. All is lost._

“Ow! My poor old bones.” The man climbed shakily to his feet, helped by his walking stick. “Decent dungeons have straw pallets to sleep on. But alas! Not much straw to talk about on this planet… Oh.” His permanent smile fell off his face when he saw her eyes. “Is anything the matter, my child? I mean, of course,” he smiled again, “other than this being a cell and that.”

“I just… I thought you had gotten away.”

“I did.” The man fell, rather than sit, next to her, his back against the wall. “Mrs. Lanis hid me in her cellar. Do you know Mrs. Lanis? Her stew is to die for.”

“Not Mrs. Lanis! Did the soldiers arrest her too?”

“Oh, no. The soldiers like her stew as much as anyone!” The old man was incongruously cheerful. “They like her blue ale even better, though.”

Kyna didn’t consider herself too sharp. Then again, she didn’t consider herself too dull, either. She was sure she was missing something in this conversation and she only needed someone to point the way for her.

“You’re not in chains,” she noticed. “The Molsh are not known to be moved by frailty and old age.”

“My dear child, you’re _hearing_ , but you’re not _listening_ ,” the old man chided her sweetly. “I never said I had been taken prisoner by the Molsh, did I? One fifty.”

“You weren’t?”

“I wasn’t! As I mentioned, right now I am snugly hidden in Mrs. Lanis’s cellar, while the soldiers tasked with finding me get drunk on her blue ale. At first light, before the red moon sets, I will leave for the eastern mountains. I’ll be there after a couple days’ walk.”

“But… This isn’t Mrs. Lanis’s cellar.”

“Clearly. This smells better.” He winced. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. As Lao Tse said once, ungrateful is the man who forgets the good that was done to him. That is why I’m here, as a matter of fact.”

“Why?”

“If not for you, I _would_ be in chains now. I can no longer do anything for your friend,” he sighed, “but I can do something for you.”

“You mean you’re here for me? _By choice_?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a _choice_ , exactly. I’d prefer somewhere with pallets. And bedsheets. Bedsheets would be a nice touch.”

She craned her neck to take a good look at the narrow window overhead. The bars were very close together. The old man was small, but not _that_ small. And he certainly didn’t look capable of climbing that high.

“How did you get in?”

“Through the door,” the old man answered, as though it should be obvious.

The door was a bunch of solid-looking planks bolted together. It didn’t seem likely to open for anyone unless the jailer wanted it to.

“And how do you expect to get out?”

“Through the door, as well. One twenty. Not for a while, though. We’ll give your friends a chance to rescue us.”

“Do you know about my friends?”

“I do. Everyone knows about your friends.”

“Then you know we were looking for you, don’t you? This warrior you talk about… You…”

“Yes?”

“You _know_ him, right?”

“Yes. Yes, I know him.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“Will you lead us to him? Will you tell him about us?”

“Are you sure you’d want him on your side?”

“Yes. Why not? He helps people in your stories, doesn’t he?”

“Have you heard what a man said about people who fight monsters?”

“That they’re courageous?”

“Yes. Yes, that they’re courageous. One hundred.”

“One hundred what?”

“Ninety nine now. Well, it looks like your friends aren’t coming. In any case, we might as well get rid of this chain to save time. Let me see this…”

The old man’s walking stick was gnarled and knobbly, but thin enough to fit through the rings of one of the manacles. The links rattled as the brass tip pushed them out of the way.

“Here we go. All we need is a little old leverage.”

“Er… I don’t think it will break.”

“Oh, it’ll break alright. It isn’t as strong as it looks.”

Kyna studied her restraints as the old man worked. Chain and manacles were made of thick iron. They were old and rusty, but had been made to _endure_. A piece of wood, no matter how sturdy, couldn’t be a match for them.

“Will you help an old man out? Here, hold this. When I count three, pull toward you as hard as you can. Can you do that?”

“I really don’t think…” she protested weakly, but the old man seemed so sure.

“I’ll hold this in place. You just shut your eyes tight and pull. Ready? One… Two…”

At _three_ , a loud _crack_ exploded as loudly as a firecracker. Splinters flew and hit the ground. Kyna opened her eyes to contemplate, amazed, the half stick she was now holding.

“Ha, ha!” The old man was nearly dancing on the spot. “I told you it’d break, didn’t I? I’ll take this, thank you.”

She could see why it had broken so easily. It was hollow. He upended it and gave it a few shakes, and a shiny cylindrical object fell in his hand.

“Is that a weapon?,” Kyna asked, her eyes lighting up.

“As Ly Tin Wheedle once said, anything can be a weapon in the wrong hands.”

“Or in the right hands.”

“You could say that,” the man shrugged. “This, however, is a _tool_.”

The tool glowed. The tool chirped. The tool waved and circled around the manacles. And then, one by one, they _click_ ed and fell open.

She ran for the door and stuck her ear to it.

“Alright, there doesn’t seem to be anyone now. You just need to open the lock…”

“I’m sorry. It doesn’t work on wood.”

“What? What do you mean, it doesn’t work on wood?”

“It doesn’t. Didn’t I mention that? I should have.” He was struggling to his feet. “Ten, by the way.”

“Ten what? How will get out of here?”

“Eight… Seven… Six…”

“What are you count– _What is that noise_?”

The sound filled the cell, slow, rumbling, inexplicable. Then, before Kyna’s astonished eyes, it seemed to coalesce into a shape. A big, blue, rectangular… _thing_.

“Zero,” the man smiled.

When Kyna found her voice, she spoke very quietly and slowly.

“What in all the pits of the underworld is _that_?”

“The door,” said the old man, opening it. “Are you coming?”

* * *

Some things shouldn’t be.

There shouldn’t be room for so many marvels inside what accounted to no much more than a cupboard. There shouldn’t be room for a planet inside a cell.

“I told you, we are no longer in the cell.” The old man in dark clothes staggered around on his new walking stick, which he now used to point through the open double doors. “That _is_ Rull, your planet.”

Kyna looked at the big round ochre expanse. She focused on the darker spots of the populated areas, on the black smudges of the seas that refused to die.

Well, her brain had accepted several impossible things. There was surely room for one more.

“You don’t just _know_ him, do you?”

“No. I don’t just know him.”

“Why didn’t you tell so?”

“I’m such a riddle, ain’t I?”

“But… But you’re so… Such…”

“‘Frailty and old age,’ I think were your words.”

“I apologise.”

“Why? It is the truth. I have lived longer than you. _Way_ longer than you.”

“You were a great warrior!”

“ _Was_. I was also a tourist. And a husband, and a father. And a grandfather!”

“What are you now?”

“Some people call me ‘pilgrim.’ I like it. I’m running with that.”

“Have you ever pilgrimaged on my world before–?” She hesitated. “Before?”

“I have. I’ve seen big towers and domes of rock rising amidst garden-cities that in spring bloomed in every colour. I’ve seen the three moons set on placid seas.”

“Then the Molsh came.” Her voice was tinged with hate. Pure, unveiled hate. The old man’s perpetual smile turned into a grimace at that.

She looked into his eyes. She didn’t see there the fire of untold burning worlds. Only that deep, ancient sadness. She had no use for the sadness. She needed the fire.

“If you don’t fight for us,” she said at last, “all is lost.”

“All is lost sooner or later, isn’t it?” He staggered to the central console and threw a lever.

The sound and motion didn’t catch her by surprise this time around. The effect, however, took some getting used to. Countless sunrises and sunsets happened in a heartbeat, and the ochre expanse was now grey.

“Rull, ten billion years after your time. Your sun has expanded. The Molsh are long gone. So are your people. Would your actions, or mine, stop that from happening?”

She didn’t answer.

“And yet, nothing is ever lost.” He threw another lever, and the panorama changed again. She held on tight.

“Not placid seas,” the old man walked back to her, “but mighty oceans. Not garden-cities, but lush rainforests from pole to pole. Still Rull, ten million years before your time. Your people are a bunch of furry creatures jumping and cavorting somewhere in that peninsula.

“All is lost, nothing is lost. The universe doesn’t throw anything away, it doesn’t forget anything. Everything is preserved in some dimension or other. Past, present and future are only different ways we choose to look at it.”

“I can’t make those choices,” she said bitterly. “I don’t have all of time and space at the flick of a switch.”

“You can have it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t always… _pilgrimage_ … alone.”

“You’re proposing me to come with you? As a disciple? Or as a bodyguard?”

“As a companion. What do you say?”

“What will happen? After they find me gone.”

“The jailer will be most likely executed.”

“Good for him.”

“Also, Captain Kurrup will get tough on the local rebels.”

_Mother Mbulla,_ she thought. _Ralle. Mort. I will not leave them in their hour of need._

“Take me back.”

“You people will always fascinate me. You have only one life to live, and you choose to die.”

“How many lives do _you_ have?”

“I stopped counting. Alright, then. Your hometown. Next morning.”

* * *

Captain Kurrup read the jailer’s report. _The prisoner is gone_ , it said simply. “Well, I’ll make an example out of him,” he said to himself. “I’ll make an example out of everyone.”

“I think you’ll need this.”

Captain Kurrup turned in his chair and found the escaped prisoner. It was on the other end of his sword.

“My dear child…”, he started belching.

“Don’t _my dear child_ me, you beast.”

Kyna had heard only Molsh steel could pierce Molsh plate-armour. Now she put that theory to the test.

She gave Captain Kurrup’s anatomy a new orifice to vent its gases. She watched him collapse deflated on his weak legs.

“You won’t put anyone else under arrest,” she proclaimed, pinching her nose.

* * *

The blue box thing was on the eastern mountains, just where the man had said it would be. It took her two days’ walk to get there.

_Take his offer_ , Mother Mbulla had said. _Go with him. Convince him to join our cause_.

The old man was expecting her.

“Let’s make something clear,” she said. “I’ll be able to return anytime, right?”

“You’ll be able to walk upon a hundred worlds and return here just a minute after your departure. Before the shadows have had time to shift. Just one thing.”

“Yes?”

“No weapons aboard the TARDIS.”

She bared the newly-cleaned Molsh steel from her knapsack and offered it to him.

“It’s just a sword. It’s in the right hands now.”

“I can see that.” The old man wouldn’t touch the hilt. “It’ll have to go in the armoury.”

“You have an armoury?”

“It goes mostly unused now. Come on now! Chop, chop! We don’t have much time.”

“I thought we had all of time at our disposal.”

“We do. But it’ll get dark if we remain here.”

“Alright, then. Just one more question.”

“As Confucius said once, shoot.”

“How should I call you? Sir? _Master_?”

A shadow crept across the old man’s cheerful face.

“ _Doctor_ will do.”

“Doctor it’ll be then. You can call me Kyna. Shall we go?”

“Let’s. Oh, my child, just wait and see. The places you’ll know.”

The TARDIS started. The time rotor pumped.

One moment later, the eastern mountains were empty and the sun fell.


End file.
